Sunday
by i've just got one
Summary: John visits him every Sunday. He knows this because he's there too, always hidden, watching, observing.


**A/N: I have no idea why I wrote this, given my hatred of angst, but the muse would not be silenced. So. Here it is, my first completed Sherlock fic in all its dubious glory. Slight implied Johnlock if you turn your slash goggles on high (which is the setting mine are permanently turned to these days), but can easily be read as friendship.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock, nor do I own any of the characters, places, or situations therein.**

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><p>John visits him every Sunday.<p>

He knows this because he's there too, always hidden, watching, observing.

The first time Sherlock watches, John looks so tired and broken, so unlike the strong, stalwart man Sherlock had grown to care for, that it takes every ounce of Sherlock's willpower to keep from rushing over and enveloping his best friend in a tight embrace and promising never to leave him again.

He doesn't, though. It would be counter-productive.

As he observes his friend walk slowly away from the grave - _limp is back, not too bad, but it's there; left arm stiff, shoulder acting up_ - Sherlock pretends that there isn't a tear escaping from the corner of his eye.

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><p>A week later, and both of them are there once again. Sherlock watches John <em>- moved back into the flat, hasn't been sleeping well, only eats when Mrs. Hudson makes him<em> - stand and stare at the headstone, feeling a twinge of pain in his chest - his heart? - as the doctor reaches out, as he did before, and touches his fingers to the dark stone.

He is close enough to hear the words John is saying, and listens intently, trying to ignore the ache that has settled in the pit of his stomach.

"You're a right git for leaving me, you know that?" John remarks, and the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches upwards. "Your brother insists on checking up on me almost every day. I keep telling him to sod off, but he's almost as stubborn as you."

There's silence for a moment as John clears his throat. "I, um...I moved back into the flat. It's amazing how dull it is without you around blowing things up. You know you left half a decomposing pigeon in the oven? Mrs. Hudson was livid..." Pause. "She misses you, though." Another pause, longer. "I miss you."

Sherlock's chest tightens a little. I miss you too, John.

"Harry visited me today. Shame you two never met - you would have been at each other's throats constantly, it would have been extremely amusing." Sherlock smiles, knowing John to be right - judging by what he's deduced about Harry, the consulting detective would most definitely NOT have gotten on with her. "You might be surprised to hear she's on the wagon again. Three months without a drink. You know what she told me? She told me, 'I figured that one of us had to be a responsible adult, and seeing as you were running about London with a lunatic, I didn't think it would be you.' Anyway, she's doing much better..."

John's phone goes off. He glances at it, says apologetically, "That's Sarah. She's, um, she's taking me out for coffee. Figures I need to get out more, take my mind of things." He brushes his fingertips against the gravestone once more. "I'll...I'll be back next week then. Goodbye, Sherlock."

After John has gone, Sherlock approaches the grave, removes his gloves, and lightly touches his fingers to the spot where John's had lingered, as though he can take a little bit of John with him when he goes.

The stone is cold and feels nothing like John.

Sherlock turns and leaves.

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><p>It becomes a routine each week. John visiting, Sherlock watching and listening. Sherlock comes to depend on those moments. They are the only time he sees John, hears John's voice. In a way, the visits are both a luxury and a torture, for Sherlock can only look, not touch, no matter how badly he wants to hold John and drink away the other man's pain, and while Sherlock is usually quite content with merely observing, this is different. John is different.<p>

He supposes it's a sort of punishment for hurting John so greatly in the first place, and he accepts it willingly.

Then Sherlock must follow a lead on the Continent, and he cannot observe John's visits. Every Sunday while he is away, though, he imagines John limping into the graveyard and standing before the headstone, gently placing his fingers on it and speaking to it, to Sherlock's ghost, in a low voice.

It hurts to be deprived of what little contact he had with John, and Sherlock is eager to return to London.

On the day he comes back, it's raining, and Sherlock fears that the weather will keep John indoors. He goes to the gravesite anyway, just in case, and sure enough, at his usual time, John hobbles in. He has no umbrella, Sherlock notices with disdain. John is a doctor, he knows better than to walk around in the pouring rain like that.

Not that Sherlock is much better. Then again, Sherlock has never been known for paying his health any attention. As long as his mind is in working order, his physical health doesn't matter.

John's does, though. No doubt the doctor will receive a scolding from Mrs. Hudson when he returns home.

Sherlock takes a moment to do what he does best. _Recently getting over the flu; got back together with Sarah about a week-and-a-half ago_ - Sherlock's lips curl a little in disdain; surely John knew he could do better? - _started working again. Looks a little happier. Moving on. Good_.

"Afternoon, Sherlock," John says, voice a little hoarse - _hasn't fully recovered from his illness then_. "Thought you might be interested to hear that Lestrade's been requesting my presence at certain crime scenes. Apparently they're under the impression that I'm still useful, even without you." John smiles a bit. "Told him no, of course. It's flattering, but I don't think I'm up to handling Anderson on my own.

"It's...it's been a little easier. Not having you around. Certainly quieter. No violin music at two in the morning, no racing after serial killers...I'd be mad to miss it, wouldn't I?" John sighs. "Guess I'm mad, then."

John remains there for a while, talking about this and that aimlessly, which would normally bore Sherlock to death, but somehow, nothing John says is ever dull. Even listening to him ramble on about his latest row with the chip-and-pin machine is fascinating, because it's John. Sherlock hangs onto every word, drinking in the sound and sight of John after being away from it for so long. The doctor definitely looks a little happier, a little less depressed, but he looks older, too. Wearier. There are lines on his face that weren't there before, and the hair at his temples is threatening to grey.

Is that Sherlock's doing?

He prays it isn't.

Still, as he watches John leave, Sherlock is happy to see that the limp is almost gone and there is no sign of stiffness in the doctor's shoulder. Perhaps John is finally moving on.

Sherlock wonders why this realization makes his chest feel so empty.

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><p>When John shows up seven days later, the limp is back with a vengeance, enough to require the use of a cane. John is pale, there are dark circles under his eyes. He hasn't been sleeping. Nightmares, Sherlock deduces. He tells himself John has just been dreaming of the terrors of war, but he knows what his friend has been plagued by every night. Memories of that day, the day he saw Sherlock apparently plunge to his death.<p>

Guilt is not something Sherlock is accustomed to feeling. He'd never experienced it until John entered his life, and now, it threatens to overwhelm him.

He tries to focus, observe. _Hasn't slept in three days; had a row with Harry, tried to convince her to go back to Clara; stopped seeing his therapist - she was useless anyways_.

"Things are so hard, Sherlock," John says as he reaches the grave. His voice is so low, Sherlock must strain to hear him. "Every day you aren't here...It's hell."

John inhales deeply, rubbing his wounded shoulder. "Damn it, Sherlock, how could you do that to me? How could you just...just leave like that. It's not fair. You can't storm into my life like some whirlwind and completely change everything and then just leave. You bastard."

Even though he knows no one can see him, Sherlock bows his head, feeling legitimate shame for the first time in his life. He should never have asked John to share a flat with him. Should have known it would be dangerous. Should have known he might just become attached to the seemingly ordinary, mild-mannered man who had limped into the lab at St. Bart's so long ago and almost instantly become a permanent facet of Sherlock's life.

"If I had it to do over, I wouldn't change a thing, though," John almost sighs. "Wouldn't give up my time with you for the world. But I...I would have stayed with you, this time around. Until the end. Not an hour goes by that I don't regret the last words I ever said to your face. I wish...I don't know. I wish I had you back. Everything's just so pointless without you around. And-"

At this point a choked sob bursts out of John's mouth, and Sherlock feels almost physically pained by the sound. He watches John crouch down and rest his forehead against the headstone, strangled cries racking his shoulders. Sherlock tries to remind himself that this is far better than the alternative - far better than John being dead - but it's hard to focus when all he can concentrate on is the agonizing sound of John's crying.

For a few moments, Sherlock is tempted - so, so tempted - to leave his hiding place and wrap John in his arms and beg for forgiveness, because he feels prepared to do anything to stop this feeling of guilt.

But he doesn't. The point of his "death" was to keep John safe. Sherlock regrets nothing.

John _will_ be all right, Sherlock is certain of that, as he watches his friend compose himself and trudge out of the graveyard. He _will_ be. Because John is a soldier and he's survived tougher things than this. He'll move on, eventually, and continue being a brilliant doctor. Continue being a hero. Sherlock's hero.

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><p>And then one day, John does not come.<p>

Sherlock waits. And waits. And waits, but there is no sign of the doctor. An hour elapses, two, three, but still no John. Sherlock - the part of him that will admit to feeling emotion, at least - begins to worry. John is a military man, he never deviates from his schedule, never breaks his routine.

Something is not right.

He shakes it off, the worry. John is probably sick. Or busy. Or visiting Harry. Or with...Sherlock cringes a little at the memory of Sarah. He can't help it - he always was envious of the time she spent with John. _His_ John.

Still, if she makes John happy, that is the important thing.

Coat billowing out behind him, Sherlock strides out of the graveyard, tuning out the gnawing feeling of anxiety in his gut.

* * *

><p>The next day, Sherlock sees it in the papers.<p>

_Ex-Military Doctor Commits Suicide_

Sherlock lets the paper fall to the ground and stares off into space. For once, his brain is mercifully dormant.

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><p>That Sunday, Sherlock finds himself standing in front of his gravestone. Beside it, a little smaller, carved out of a more warmly-colored stone, is a second stone. It bears the name <em>JOHN H. WATSON.<em>

Sherlock has never experienced denial before. Has never grieved before, not even when his father died. Nobody ever meant enough to him to warrant such emotions.

Until John.

And now Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed sociopath, the man who has always railed against emotions and feelings, crumples to his knees in front of his best friend's - no, more than that, always more - grave and lets his tears flow as he feels his allegedly non-existent heart breaking.


End file.
